Intentions
by Beafallo
Summary: Vincent learns the true extent of his condemnation from a woman in despair. Sometimes breaking the rules is a death sentence. But for Vincent it's something else altogether. Rated M for some sensuality and adult themes later on.
1. Obligation

Disclaimer: Not my world, not my characters.

**Author's Note:**** Well, this is something I just sort of coughed up one night. Story's rated M for some more mature scenes down the road, if I decide to finish this. **

**It's labeled as a romance only because it contains some scenes of sensuality. Sensuality does not always equal love. Just a warning. **

**That's all =)

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**Intentions** Chapter One

*~*~*

Life had become a monotonous routine with little effort. And for a man whose only guarantee of complete redemption was an eternity in hell, he was grateful for the simple responsibilities that daily chores provided. A distraction from the bigger picture of a tormented life. Albeit it wasn't much of a salvation, but Vincent Valentine had long since come to the realization that his soul was far beyond saving. Like looking at a piece of furniture in a junkyard and thinking it _could_ have a good future, but realizing later on that the all the work involved wouldn't be worth the outcome.

The type of situation where the end would not have justified the means. The same story that riddled his past, perhaps the story of his future, and likely the ultimate punishment for a soul veiled in black.

He may have ignored the rules of morality for the first twenty-seven years of his life, but he wasn't about to now. Still damned to the same fate, however honorable his intentions, but deep down still minutely hopeful for a future remedy. His offenses were countless, but it was the sheer heinousness of his previous crimes alone that kept him high on the devils list.

A feat he had learned to simply endure alone. Five years since his abrupt awakening, but still uncomfortable with himself and the body that was not always his own; and for the most part still opposed to social company. Some things were not worth changing.

But so far, his routine of everyday tasks had been sufficient enough in keeping unwanted intrusion out of his life, him not being above pretending that his inner psyche was not a rotting mess of suffocating complexities.

Just nightmares and a host of fiends, both deep rooted within the confines of his imprisoned soul were two things he had not been able to completely shrug since he'd come out of Shinra Manor. Sometimes the memory of the Manor itself seemed an easier thing to forget.

He often tired of waking up tangled in his bed sheets from a long night spent fighting an invisible adversary with the memory of being awakened from a thirty year long nightmare still fresh in mind, but he was willing to count his losses and move on. What was thirty years compared to the endless bouts of thirty years ahead?

Maybe he had come out of a coffin. Maybe he even had a split soul shared with several other beings, but he had still managed to make somewhat of a life in Nibelheim. And while it wasn't much, just a small apartment with limited amenities, it was something to call his own. Something to come home to at the end of the day that was not a two foot deep box that belonged six feet under. Just a place that needed taken care of. And though it didn't always feel like home, it was always somewhere he could escape to. And that was more than he'd needed.

Yet, even the routines of a somewhat normal life could not free him from the abnormalities of his past. And as he lay down at the end of each day it was always the same. The fear, the visions, _her_ voice. Always her voice in his dreams. And still that fear of having to be somewhere, knowing something was wrong, and suddenly realizing you were too late. She was already dead. Gast's soft voice somewhere behind him, echoing in his ringing ears. "Vincent, there's nothing you could have done, she wanted it this way."

Blood. Blood everywhere. Shot wound through the heart. He'd been angry at first, demanded to find the culprit. Nearly attacked Gast when he'd asked for his dagger, a makeshift weapon he used only when his firearm's weren't available.

"Vincent, please don't do anything reckless! At least _try_ to be rational."

But being rational had seemed too difficult a thing to grasp at the time. Wouldn't believe she'd done it herself. Wouldn't believe she'd taken that gun and pulled the trigger. The trigger of_ his_ gun. The very one he'd been looking for all that morning. Damn himself for being so blind, for not seeing her pain, not seeing what had been right in front of his face the entire time.

But, in the end, he knew it was better to have the nightmares. Better to dream of an eternity spent alone than risk getting too comfortable. Because comfort, Vincent had learned, was Chaos's best offense. And Vincent couldn't risk losing control, even if it meant building an impenetrable wall between himself and the world. Because it was not always his body, not always his mind, and not always safe.

And it was important he never forget that, not even for a moment.

Life stuck in perpetual routines was bad enough, but a life behind glass with nothing to look at save the figure of someone in a white lab coat, writing on a clipboard whilst peering at him, seemed a much worse fate.

Which is why he hadn't even bothered to respond to Tifa's invitation to Avalanches upcoming reunion.

Time. It had taken so much time for him to make it this far. He wasn't about to switch things up, and didn't feel the need to rock the boat. He preferred the safe haven of sturdy ground. He enjoyed knowing what to expect when he woke up each morning. Had honestly never really felt close enough to any of them to feel he needed to stay in touch.

But even _he_ couldn't suppress some small amount of guilt at knowing he'd let Tifa down the first time. She'd sent him a letter after he'd missed their first reunion, dumbstruck and surprised by his outright omission. The first half spent berating him for his absence, the second complimenting him for his pure audacity.

And then, the small postscript, at the bottom of the letter, saying she really missed him.

If Vincent hadn't known any better, and had he cared at the time, he might have thought her a smidgen disappointed by his absence. Not that he understood why. He couldn't think of any specific times when they had really ever spoken to each other out of anything but pure necessity. He had never once regretted his distance towards the others. He certainly respected Tifa, she was a strong woman, but he wasn't about to go out of his way to see her.

But apparently Tifa felt quite differently. And when he'd opened up what he'd assumed to be a follow up letter, begging for his participation at their upcoming five year reunion, it was not to find the same hesitantly polite, written to a stranger, style of writing he'd expected.

Tifa was coming to see him. And by her forward, decisive manner, Vincent had not been left with much room for argument.

Grabbing his coat and feeling completely powerless, he exited his home, making his way down the short steps, hair tied back, gun strapped to his thigh, ready to take care of the unpleasant business of a trade that five years had yet to make any less uncomfortable. Prepared to relinquish his human form, for the body of a not too pleasant stranger. Being not altogether prepared for what lay ahead, and feeling the stress of something that was out of his control.

As he went out into the outskirts of Nibelheim, ready to let_ them_ out, he felt violently angry for being obligated to something that was completely out of his control.

And ironically, Vincent felt for the first time in years, completely and utterly human.


	2. Stranger

Disclaimer: Not my world, not my characters.

**Author's Note: So....I wrote another chapter. Funny thing considering I never even meant to write this story.  
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**Much gratitude to anyone reading(even if you're not saying anything =P) and to those of you who did and had the initiative to review.

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**Intentions Chapter Two**

*~*~*~*

Tifa couldn't sleep.

Three weeks and she had yet to shrug the uncomfortable feeling of sleeping in a bed without him beside her. Still a warm body, but not the comfortable presence that a longtime lover provided. Rather, she lay staring at the back of a recently turned twenty-one year old. A number that seemed so young, now that she was nearing twenty-five. She could remember being twenty-one like it was yesterday, feeling like she knew life, like she had it all figured out. Perched somewhere on top of the world, absorbed by some self-earned, profound wisdom and completely invincible.

Funny, how quickly things can change, she thought as her eyes traced the curved lines of Yuffie's back and shoulders. The girl was barely recognizable in that she wasn't the immature girl they'd known during Avalanche, but still as sneaky as ever, a fact she'd realized upon discovering the ninja's hand within her materia bag on numerous occasions. Some old habits just have to die hard, she thought to herself, and she didn't judge her if only because she could relate. Kind of like recovering from losing a vital organ. Maybe like putting the pieces of a broken heart back together.

But did you ever fully recover from those kind of wounds?

Tifa blinked, willing herself to look away from Yuffie's nearly naked back, as it was serving only to remind her that she was not Cloud. Almost a month and she was beginning to tire of her thoughts constantly diverting to her spiky-haired, former lover. Three weeks and the tears just wouldn't come anymore, though she didn't much count on it being from numbness. Still the feeling of her chest lodged in her throat along with a gaping void located somewhere between her ribcage and her spine, possibly where her heart had once been present. And that was feeling enough to know she was a broken woman. No anger left for the man that had walked away when she'd needed him most, just the knowledge that he'd never loved her and an indefinite craving for answers.

And she'd do _anything_ to find those answers. Face every fear she had to, if it meant even the smallest drop of closure.

Closing her eyes tightly she brought her arm up to her forehead and let out a long sigh, hoping to force her body into unconsciousness. A few moments of hypnotic silence and she could feel herself drifting into sleep, and it wasn't long before her thoughts were running wildly together, untamed and dangerous.

She could see images of Nibelheim, she hadn't been here in forever. Recalled entering the town that morning, smelling the scent of streets she hadn't smelled in a few years. Thought she'd seen a new bar in place of the old potions shop. Had wanted to check it out, but the thought of going alone had been too painful. Thought back to the last time she'd visited the town, pretty sure it was at _his_ house. Her and Cloud at his place, somewhere close to the bed, apologizing for an earlier argument. She was sure it had been a touchy subject. Couldn't remember for a moment and then...._Oh_, that's right, Aeris. And then they'd ended the night tangled in each others arms, just like they ended every other argument, the smell of sweat, something salty on her lips, his tongue against hers, and then...

Oh, God. Tifa opened her eyes, panting in the still darkness of the room. Not this again, not tonight, she was sick of these dreams. Three weeks, yet it still felt like it had happened just yesterday.

Hadn't somebody told her once that time healed all wounds? Wasn't that what everyone said when their mind's ran blank as they racked their brain for a consoling word? Well, everyone, she told herself, was wrong.

What had time done for any of the others but provide a superficial mask? Time had made Yuffie more mature, but it hadn't denied her the pleasure of her vices. It had shown Cid the power of humanity, but it hadn't made his dreams come true. Barret had been given the grace of a second chance, but he still craved the conflict of his younger days.

And in the end, time had brought her and Cloud together, only to tear them apart just moments later..

He'd simply gotten out of bed one night, slipping out of her arms until she'd been left grasping cold air. Nothing had seemed amiss until the lingering glare of the lamp had had her seeing red. Had eventually forced her eyes open, squinting against the blaze of the fluorescent lamp, but she'd eventually been able to distinguish his form at the foot of the bed. His arms had been moving in such a way that she'd recognized him to be folding clothes, but she'd never actually witnessed the evidence.

His voice had been quiet, but it had bore more force than if he might have screamed and slapped her in the face.

"I'm sorry Tifa, but we just...we just don't go together." He'd stopped packing a few moments and ran a hand quickly through his hair, a nervous habit he'd never been able to seize from his childhood. "I mean, we have great chemistry, but I think I might want something else, y'know?" His eyes had met her's, and any words she'd had prepared went thickly swallowed.

No, she didn't know, had never wanted anything else but him. There had been a stretch of silence broken only by the sound of a swishing zipper, but the sense of finality it had breathed into the air had been more tangible then any words could possibly have expressed. "You're a strong girl, you'll get through this." His voice had been quiet, and she hadn't doubted his sincerity, but it was the last thing she'd wanted to hear. And then he'd shouldered his bags with his back facing her as he'd addressed the door. "And if it's any consolation..."

She'd inwardly braced herself, had seen the blow before the words were out of his mouth, but the knowledge alone hadn't saved her.

"I've only ever loved one person, and you could never have replaced her."

And she hadn't seen or spoken to him since.

How could time break her apart, destroy everything she knew and then decide to repair her? It didn't seem fair that the culprit should get to be the savior. A savior....she almost laughed at the thought. No, time was anything but a savior. But then, she stopped mid thought giving the tiniest of frowns as something tugged at her brain. She could recall someone telling her something about salvation once, or maybe it had just been a guilty confession. Maybe Vincent? Yes, Vincent...but what was it he had said to her? Or had he been talking to someone else?

Cid, that's right, he'd been talking to Cid, stating his admiration for his forward attitude, and then he'd revealed some small revelation by mentioning briefly that his feelings had vanished into thin air after his long slumber in Shinra Manor.

Was that what people meant when they said time could heal anything? Had it just made Vincent so numb that he was unable to feel anything, good or bad? She wasn't sure, but God, if there was a man who knew anything about time it was Vincent. Three decades spent in a coffin, and maybe she was wrong, but he'd always seemed to possess some quiet wisdom behind those red eyes.

So she made up her mind to see him, and careful not to disturb the young woman next to her, she slipped out from under the covers, dropping to the floor in search of something to write with.

And for the first time in weeks she didn't hesitate as her pen flew across the page. The certainty of her wrist obliging the white plane as her thoughts and heart became one with the paper. So desperate in her search to find an answer that satisfied her that the division between her mind and her hand was unobstructed, no filter to bounce the bare humanity of her thoughts. No time to think she was being presumptuous in her certainty.

And no time to think just how dangerous or unstable a man like Vincent could be when his scales were suddenly and abruptly imbalanced.

*~*~*~*

Some say that habit and routine are the ultimate path to destruction. That the fruits of its labor are only poisonous and a waste. But for Vincent Valentine, a poisoned chalice had seemed like more than a fair trade for his past of indolent conviction. Forever sentenced to savor the flavor of a its sour rebuke in his mouth.

Or maybe it was just the faint aftertaste of blood from the hunt his tongue was rubbing against, he thought to himself with a grimace as he turned to spit in the sink.

He was in the bathroom, the same place he nearly always ended up after transforming(despite the few times he'd passed out in his entry way). In the bathroom there was nothing to soak the blood up or absorb the stench of animal that tended to cling to his clothes. Just the audacity of a nearly empty room, save for a few necessary toiletries and the cold reflection of his exhausted form avoiding his gaze somewhere in the mirror.

Hard to tell sometimes whether it was him or his reflection doing the 'looking'.

These were the thoughts that weighed on his mind as he put away his firearms and undressed. An old habit, to keep a gun strapped to his thigh, even in the proclaimed 'safety' zones of town. Though he often wondered what defense the fury of a speeding bullet was compared to the fiends that slumbered in his soul. Nothing, he felt sure, held much of a threat to his ever lurking demons. Always somewhere in the back of his mind, never too comfortable, and always patiently waiting.

A fact that was hardly comforting, to know that they were as bitter and discontent as he was, Vincent thought to himself as he stepped into the hot spray of the shower. He always showered *after, scrubbing his skin until it was raw, like it might actually rid him of the taste of blood or the memory of ripping long unfamiliar talons into another beast. And while he knew the metallic stench would eventually fade from his nose, the fear of the loss of control or the paralyzed feeling of weak muscles would not. Five years, but the constant terror remained. Some things were too terrible to get used to.

It was still daylight outside, and he could see a few streaks of light across the end of his bed as he stepped out of the bathroom, the result of a scantily clad window, and he had to close his eyes for a moment as a blade of light caught his left eye. So annoying, those torn panels, but he didn't have the patience to deal with stubborn curtain rods and the idea of having to shop for fabric to replace the remaining tatters had seemed abhorring and not worth his time.

They'd been an unfortunate accident, Vincent recalled, from a few years ago, just after Meteor.

It had taken him a while to get used to the transformations, and he'd been caught off guard more than once, realized after a while that without the constant release earned through battle he hadn't really ever learned quite how to handle 'them'. Might have shredded a few items through the inconvenience of the hands-on education.

But somehow, with the passing of time, he'd eventually learned to pick up their devilish wavelengths and recognize their wishes, as much as mattered anyways. And it was during one of those startling moments that he'd observed they weren't all that separate of an entity from himself, and for a while he'd worried if it was just his own thoughts that he was substituting for theirs.

Either way, he didn't like to think about it too much, and ultimately it had become reason enough for him to avoid socialization for the better part of the past five years.

He sighed and rubbed his forehead with his human hand. He had tried to call Tifa, before reentering town, had dialed those numbers with firm, self-righteous fingers, and then the vibrations had caught in his voice when she'd finally answered and he hadn't been able to say anything. Not a damn thing.

What could he have said? He'd had every excuse in the world prepared before he'd dialed those numbers, had been so sure of himself, and now as he reflected on his past stupor he couldn't help but be been reminded of how it was with Lucrecia. So sure he was right, and fully prepared to confront her on the experiment whether she liked it or not, and then when the moment had come...suddenly unable to do anything but watch.

Such strong convictions, but he hadn't been able to live up to them, had always dropped his weapon when the adversary finally presented itself. Never realized how hard it was to approach someone you cared about, someone you loved.

But this was Tifa, not Lucrecia. The situation was hardly the same, he told himself as he slipped under the covers of a barely familiar bed. It wasn't very often now that he slept, other than after he went hunting.

And as his breathing slowed and his mind slipped into exhausted unconsciousness he was left with little comfort in knowing that just hours from now his house would be invaded by an unwelcome guest. And something within his soul was uneasy.

*~*~*~*

She'd gone through hell to make it this far, having ducked a million finicky questions and prodding fingers from the others, to eventually convincing them she was going out to buy them presents, just to keep them from asking to accompany her. It was a lie, and one she would eventually have to fulfill just to keep her story straight.

Would have been easier to just tell them she was seeing Vincent, but they hadn't taken so lightly to his continual absence throughout the years. Too afraid that Barret would have flipped his lid about it. The big man could be full of compassion at times, but he was far from merciful when he was feeling cheated. And that was what Vincent was in his eyes, a thief, a cheat, a scam of a man who only used Avalanche to fulfill his obsession for revenge.

Tifa hadn't viewed it so black and white, but Barret wasn't the type to quarrel with, especially if you had the better argument, because that meant having to deal with his injured pride too. And that was doubly difficult to handle.

But now, as she stood in the shadow of his home in the evening sun, she wasn't feeling so certain of her quiet defense for the underdog. Considered turning and simply walking away, but curiosity won her over as she shifted something awkward in her arms to place a hesitant foot on the cracked cement staircase leading to his door.

Not a speck of grass to be found on the small lot, just dirt and an old rickety mail box that looked like it was holding on by a wobbly screw. No plants or visible windows beneath the tightly closed shutters. Just a tall, narrow, two story home with basic brown trim that didn't give any clues as to the identity of it's master. Almost like no one lived there at all, and maybe that spoke more volume about its inhabitant then big colorful signs and blinking lights.

She'd been surprised at first, to see such a quaint, somewhat lifeless, but otherwise perfectly ordinary home. Hard to imagine that a man who'd come out of a coffin could live somewhere so mundane.

But then, it had been five years. Maybe time _had_ given him a fair second chance.

God, what had she been thinking writing to him, she wasn't even sure he'd gotten her letter, only the confirmation of quiet breathing on the other end of the line when he'd called. Probably to ask her what the hell she wanted, or call her a fool, but either way he hadn't told her not to come, and it'd been invitation enough. She hadn't considered the phone call to be anything more than a minor inconvenience at the time, but now she was starting to wonder if it was some kind of bad omen.

The thought brought her eyes down to the small fruit basket in her hands. God, she wished he _had_ told her not to come. What if things went sour? What if Vincent was as weary of people as he had always seemed to be? What if he was just a crook like the others believed?

No, she was just being a coward. And so she raised her fist, ready to knock...

But the door opened abruptly and without warning before her knuckles even had a chance to make contact, and she nearly stumbled into him. Or maybe he was stumbling into her, it was hard to tell in the flurry of the moment.

"Vincent!" He looked up abruptly and looked almost...startled? Was nearly nose to nose with her before stalling abruptly and retracing his footsteps back. Seemed surprised to see her standing there, but...hadn't he been expecting her? Maybe he hadn't gotten her letter, and she'd imagined the phone call? She felt hot and embarrassed, ready to apologize at the intrusion, but by the time she'd registered the blunder and come up with an apology he had already recovered from his surprise.

"Tifa, I wasn't expecting you so soon." His voice was brusque and quiet like she remembered, but he was short of breath, and though his voice didn't give any hints, she had the creeping feeling she'd interrupted something, and judging by his earlier haste, it had probably been important.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I thought I said six o'clock, I must have forgotten what-" But he waved his human hand to cut her off, though it was hard to tell whether he was getting impatient.

"I must have lost track of the time. Forgive me." He spoke without looking at her, his gaze moving somewhere above her head and he seemed deeply concentrated on something behind her. But Tifa hadn't noticed anything of great interest on her walk over, just a few houses down the way. He was practically on the outskirts of town. Was he staring at the mountains? She was almost tempted to turn around, but his eyes were upon her once more, and she couldn't move. His gaze was startlingly murky, a thick glaze over his red eyes and while she couldn't be certain, she felt sure she'd seen that look before.

He looked the same, yet different somehow in that he appeared disgruntled. Something Tifa had never witnessed in him before. Just as gaunt and pale as ever but it had taken a moment for her to fully recognize him without the bandanna or burdensome cloak that she remembered. He still bore a mechanical arm, a golden sore against the rest of his obscure attire; a pair of dark slacks and a loose black button-up shirt .

Still intimidating with his rigid posture and wild black hair despite the fact that he was breathing a little too heavy and his arm was pressing awkwardly against the door frame in a manner that conveyed firm reliance just to stand upright.

So strange, being in his presence. Like facing something you'd forgotten you were afraid of, only the reminder was twice as frightening, even if he was out of sorts. _Especially_ because he was out of sorts.

"Uhm....is this a bad time?" She'd meant to sound more sure of herself, but her voice came out as barely a whisper, and by the stretch of silence that followed she was afraid he might not have heard her. But his gaze eventually found her eyes, and then lowered to the bulk that was in her hands. Tifa's followed shortly after.

"I, uh, brought a little gift for you, it's nothing great, but I thought you might like it." It wasn't entirely a lie, it _was_ a gift, though she hadn't been so sure he'd appreciate it. It had simply been an afterthought on her way over. Something to distract herself with in case things went badly.

So far, it wasn't working.

"I see." And with one swift movement he had straightened up, all signs of his previous distress completely forgotten as he disappeared behind the door, leaving it open for her to follow suit.

The gesture wasn't altogether unexpected, but Tifa deemed something amiss, and as she moved through the doorway she had the lingering feeling she'd had the wrong intentions in seeking out a stranger as a savior.

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**I had a fit writing this and it dawned on me that I don't possess much talent for writing. Nothing I write seems to flow cohesively, and it's very frustrating because I have the idea's but I can't seem to put them into words. **

**So, I've decided I'm discontinuing this story.  
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**Criticism, suggestions and any helpful observations are more than welcome. In fact, that's why I uploaded this chapter.  
**


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